


A Taste of Sobriety

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bulges and Nooks, Dominant Karkat, Flogging, Frottage, Loss of Control, M/M, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Submission, Tentabulges, and Gamzee is owned, in which Karkat is a Dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: Are you ever afraid of what's going on in your head?





	A Taste of Sobriety

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is _old_. According to my notes, it was 'originally published on 2012-07-13'. It was a fic fill for an anon who requested 'Karkat and Gamzee BDSM'.
> 
> It also was originally a lot shorter and a lot simpler. In reworking it, I found I didn't like that shit. So here we are. This was an attempt to get myself back in the writing groove, and also, hey, have some sex. There's been a decided Lack of sex in my writing recently.

The collar at your throat is how he gets you. 

It's always how he ends up getting you. You find your line and you cross it, every time; and every _mother_ fucking time Karkat catches you, and no matter how he comes at you (you, a snarling fucking _miracle worker_ , a motherfucking prophet for that the most High of Purposes, the Carnival itself, _you_ ) he ends up getting them delicate-looking fronds hooked into the shining ring set at your throat, and he uses it to wrench you down. 

You know, somewhere in the depths of your sopor-rotted thinkpan, that you shouldn't be fighting him. You should be down with letting your palest of mates be doin' his fuckin job, but there are voices that

_(motherfuckinglowbloodKILLYOU)_

won't let you

_(MOTHERFUCKINGMUTANTtasteyourmiracles)_

do anything else.

You snarl at him as you go down,the filthy motherfuckin mutant with that chain all twisted in his palms and his chest heaving, sweat beading, sweet salty strength, on his forehead. You're losing it, falling out of the miracles, because he always wins. Karkat always wins.

The minute your knees hit the concrete, the

( _paintthewallsTEACHYOUYOURPLACE_ )

voices

( _DESTROYYOUtearyouopen_ )

fall

( _swallowyouwholeBRINGYOULOW-_ )

silent.

You sway, and when your eyesight starts to go fuzzy, your last sight is of him dropping to his knees before you. His arms are strong and sure, and you try and tell him how sorry you are, how motherfucking _sorry_ you are, before you lose control of your lips and consciousness whispers away from you.

* * *

The first time you'd lost it, the first time the messiahs had wrapped their motherfucking fingers around your thinkpan and slammed Karkat up against the wall, he'd been at your mercy, and the marks you had left on him are still scarred into his skin. He hadn't walked right for a week, and you hadn't been able to look him in the eye for longer than that, because you hadn't meant to be all up and breaking your palebro, your motherfucking moirail _and_ almost-matesprit, the only being who made your nerves chill and soothed your rage. 

The fact that the two of you had been almost flushcourting only moments before your hand had closed around his throat hadn't helped things. 

When you'd come to and found his blood under your claws and seen him limp on the floor beneath you, you'd bolted from the room, sure that he'd never want to see you again.

He'd screwed the collar in place two perigees later, and though sometimes you chafed under the open display of ownership, you knew it was necessary. After you lost it again, when the messiahs were so loud you couldn't do anything but scream your rage to the sky, the ease to which he brought you low and the blessed silence Karkat's assertion of dominance granted you made it impossible to deny that being collared was something you needed. Something you wanted. Something you _craved_.

It hadn't been easy. It's never fucking easy. The second time had been easier, but the third time he'd had to clap cuffs around your wrists and you'd been chained in his room while you raged, raged, raged. He'd tended to the marks you'd worn into your wrists and gotten hopbeast-fur to line the metal. Zahhak must be helping him with the construction of your confines, because you ain't never come close to being able to break them, no matter how hard you're fighting, no matter what tricks you up and try.

It hadn't been easy. But what ever is?

* * *

Consciousness creeps back slowly, to a place where you know your arms are hanging loosely at your sides and he's combing his claws through your hair, your shoulders against his and his forehead pressed to yours. Your breath is stuttering out in slow gasps, and when your head lolls forward, you feel his lips brush over the tips of your horns, one at a time. It's so fucking tender that it makes your bloodpusher hurt, your throat tight and your ganderbulbs burn. "So fucking pitiful," he muses, his voice raspy, soft—or as soft as Karkat can be—and you choke down a sob. You don't know why you always feel like a failure when reality resets itself in your mind, but you do.

"I'm fucking sorry, brother, I don't mean - the motherfucking messiahs - and they get so fucking _loud_..." You trail off, because there are fingers massaging the base of your keratin horns, claws scraping the skin, and whatever else you were going to say dissolves into pretty little warm sensations running up and down your spine, and you release your pent-up breath in a slow, shuddering sigh. This is the same set of steps the two of you have played through a half-dozen times before, and at this point, you know this dance, you're used to this routine. Your apologies have been stopped, and you know where you belong. He's in control, and that's all that matters.

You don't know where you'd be without your small, angry Master and his growly, surly voice. "Lemme apologize," you whisper, turning your face against his arm. His skin always feels so _hot,_ motherfuckin' perfection all wrapped up in an angry little frame, and when you press your fangs gingerly into his skin, he catches his breath. "Lemme show you how fuckin' sorry I am." You drag your long tongue up the inside of his arm, and when your lips are close enough to touch, you realize his are trembling. "Let me up and _show_ you."

"Fucking show me," he hisses, and you kiss him. 

You can read your flushcrush in the stars in his eyes and the way he lets your hair fall from his hand and traces your horns with his claws as you move from his mouth to his throat and then his collar. You've always been good at reading Karkat Vantas, _always,_ even moreso now that there's less sopor and more of that dark, bright light that whistles around his skull and tells you his weaknesses and—

You don't want to think about that, so you think instead about the fact that your mouth is now pressing against his stomach. When you pull down his pants, you curl your fingers around the thick base of his short, twisting bulge, and as you wrap your mouth around it, he moans. The sound makes you shiver, and you nuzzle your head lower, letting his bulge slip out of your mouth so you can explore his nook with your tongue. This feels more right than anything - being on your knees, serving your owner, your moirail-matesprit - and when he drags your head away, you whine your disappointment. 

He's panting, and you can feel him using the brackets of your horns to keep himself steady, which is good, fucking amazing, because you know you've done something right. It's not quite enough to keep the messiahs silent (you can hear them beginning to murmur, and you hate it when they come back this quickly) but it's a start. "Fucking clown-faced asshole," he murmurs, but there's no heat in his voice, and you wish you could cling to him right now, keep things simple. 

Nothing is ever simple with you, though.

You're humming with tension, because you can feel your grip slipping. You're going to need more than casual control tonight, and when he lowers his head to cover your mouth with his, you groan wordlessly, and the way that his nails dig into you tells you that he knows, too.

The chains are waiting.

He binds your wrists first, together above your head, and you can feel your skin humming with tension, because they're getting _louder,_ they're hissing and rumbling around the edges of your thinkpan. It's a fight to keep your limbs still enough to let him lock them in place, and the moment your last cuff clicks closed around your ankle, you jerk roughly in your bonds. He's having none of it - there's a solid swat across your ass as he grabs your thigh, wrenching into place. When he's done, there's a spreader bar forcing your legs at a wide stance. You rock up on your toes when he slaps your ass again, and you feel his blunted fangs scrape across your shoulder as you sag in your chains. You know you're dreaming for more than you're gonna get (because oh, how long would the messiahs go quiet if it was _your_ miracles all over the floor, on the walls? Someday, you'll talk him into it, you're sure, and the idea makes you almost weep for the longing of it) but it doesn't matter, because you're still humming with trepidation before he even he slips away from you. His footfalls are quiet, but you follow them all the same, listening to him pause, the whisper of leather sliding out of the trunk, the brush of the falls across the floor. When he lets them hiss across your skin, draping them across your shoulders in some momentary mantle of agony, you jerk in your chains, making them rattle. "Brother," you whisper, and you can hear the frantic fear that tinges your voice, your bloodpusher hammering in your chest. 

He kisses you again, kisses your lips, your jaw, kisses you until you're breathless and panting and you're not so afraid. You know that afterwards, you'll be able to breathe again, that everything will be miracles and stardust for another week or two; but letting go is the hardest thing you've ever done, every single time.

His voice is a low whisper, a soft purr. He knows what he's doing. He's done this a dozen times before. "It's okay."

The void in which nothing is touching you and all you are is a body in chains is brief. The lash comes suddenly, and then it comes again, and then _again, again, again,_ a quick rain of blows that increases in speed until you're roaring, ripping frantically at the binds holding you down, twisting in the confines of your cuffs, because how _dare_ a motherfucker, WHO THE FUCK DOES THIS PISSANT THINK HE IS, all holding you back, YOU ARE HIS MOTHERFUCKING SAVIOR, who is this, WHO IS THIS _how fucking DARE HE_

It roars. It rips through you, until your entire body is a ball of hunger, and the hunger roars, demands to be fed, and in the yawning abyss there is nothing, only this, only Karkat, only Him, and—

You're sobbing and he's kissing you, his chest flush against your raw back. He's got his hand on your chest and your forehead and you let yourself go limp, gasping for breath, desperate for anything, _anything_ , and you writhe in his arms. "Please," you gasp, your hips thudding against his. "Please, please—"

He holds you there, like that, until your pleas are just breathless whimpers and you're limp in his arms. When you can barely do more than breathe, he unshackles you, and you sink into him. It's hard to be carried but he carries you anyway, and you curl up against his chest, all long limbs bent akimbo to try and make yourself as small as possible.

His relaxation platform is warm, and his mouth is warmer. Those hot lips pepper kisses down the length of your stomach, over your hips, until he's nuzzling at your bulge and taking nearly all of it into his mouth. You can't help the way you groan, and the only reason you don't buck up against him is because you've been wrung out—the only thing you have the energy to do is lay here and _feel_. You feel your bulge tickling the back of his throat, his tongue rubbing along the ridges in your organ, and when his fingers begin massaging over the slit beneath your tentabulge, your entire body shudders. He's hot-blooded and it's never more obvious than when he's touching you, and when he lifts his head up and adjusts so that his hips are nestled with yours, the sensation of his thicker, shorter bulge pressing against you is searing. Delicious.

Your bulge does the work for you, twisting around his shaft and squeezing it with the sort of desperate hunger that only comes after being worked up as long as you have been. You reach for him and he catches your hands, guiding them to his thighs as he grinds against you, frotting your bulges together in rough, demanding movements. You want more - you always want more - but this is enough, Karkat's hot bulge trapped by yours, your hands on his hips and his clutching at yours. It doesn't take long (it never does) before you're begging, a soft whisper of _let me cum for you_ and his gravelly, hoarse voice telling you _not yet, not yet_ , and it isn't until you're rocking hungrily up against him that he finally tells you _now_ and then the whole universe is stardust and Karkat, Karkat, Karkat, your hot squirmy moirail (and almost-matesprit), your Master and Owner, the one who holds your collar and keeps you in check and you would do anything, _AnYthInG_ for him, come to pieces and unravel so he can stitch you back together or leave you a mess, it doesn't matter, you don't _care_ —

He's panting when you're done, and there's hot red fluid smeared halfway up your chest and coating your thighs. There have been times when you've taken the time to examine how gorgeous it is, the brightness of the slurry against the dullness of the skin, but right now you're too tired to care. He untangles himself from you and then there's a towel patting between your thighs, and he's telling you how you did so, so good, how he's so, so proud of your motherfucking lanky self. When he encourages you to lie on your stomach and begins massaging oils into your welts, you close your eyes.

The messiahs are silent, and for now, you can sleep.


End file.
